


What Remains

by Verfallen



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Enemies With Benefits, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Rough Kissing, Stalking, post-s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verfallen/pseuds/Verfallen
Summary: As the pain of loss became mundane and routine instead of all-consuming they realized - though neither of them wanted to admit it - that all they had left was each other.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/The Homelander | John
Comments: 10
Kudos: 97
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	What Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blurhawaii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurhawaii/gifts).



It had been months since Homelander was face-to-face with Billy. Eighty-four days, in fact. He was keeping track. Every night he took out the Vought calendar he'd snatched from the desk of some low-level office drone and scratched out the previous day with a sharpie. The smell of the ink always made him gag, so strong he could taste it, but he took the marker out, uncapped it anyway and kept telling himself that tomorrow would be the night he'd switch to an inoffensive ballpoint pen. Maybe he was trying to torture himself in small ways, too empty to feel good but afraid of feeling nothing.

Counting days was the only thing that kept the months from turning into years in his mind. Each minute passed slower than the last, seconds ticking by at a glacial slog.

Day after day after day he smiled for the camera and read his talking points like a good little corporate pet. Anyone could see that he was starting to crack. For the first time in his life, he was quietly ushered into hair & makeup to have someone cover up the bags under his eyes and put some color on his clammy cheeks.

Eighty-four days. Two thousand and sixteen hours of pretending he hadn't lost everything.

Everything except the seething hatred that welled up in his chest and spread through him like boiling water in his veins every time the name Billy Butcher crossed his mind. He didn't even dislike it. That particular emotion was the only thing preventing him from going completely numb. For a while he could cry about Ryan and Stormfront and the fact that Maeve effectively had him by the throat and stripped away whatever power he had on the Seven, but after a week or two no tears would come. He'd curl up on his bed and dry-sob until his throat was sore and his tongue felt like sandpaper and eventually, he just had to accept that the well was bare.

Sometimes he stood in his room, still as a statue. Sometimes he hopped off the balcony and hung suspended in the air high above the world watching the clouds pass by beneath him. Now that his cabin was compromised it was his only private place.

He didn't have the luxury of zoning out and letting the time pass him by, not when his ears clocked every heartbeat and footstep and pin drop within a mile radius. Even when he was alone his own traitorous heart kept him anchored to reality, a steady inescapable metronome. Sleep was the only chance he had at reprieve and even sleep rarely blessed him with a full eight hours.

A supe of his caliber could function just fine on four hours of sleep. Hell, he tried to stay up until he was completely exhausted and it was almost a week until his body succumbed. Compound V was a real fucking gift.

In those sleepless, tearless all he could do was curl up and clench his pillow until he tore into it, thinking of nothing but Billy fucking Butcher.

* * *

It was near three in the morning by the time he found Billy. Even with x-ray vision it was tedious work, checking every house and apartment and hotel one by one. That no one had ever pieced together how little privacy they had from a supe that could see through walls and tried to make a stink about it was a small miracle, but he didn’t give a fuck what any of them were doing. If it wasn’t Billy, he moved on.

His location wasn’t going to be public information any techie at Vought could pull up, not now that his name was cleared but when Homelander wanted to find someone he damn well found them.

It was like unwrapping a present, concrete and wood frame and insulated melted away one by one as if they were never there at all. It wouldn’t surprise him if Billy had coated all of his walls in zinc just in case but no, there he was, sleeping soundly in a normal house with normal walls.

Homelander’s breath hitched in his throat and he let it out slow and unsteady. Billy’s heartbeat was slow and steady. Peaceful, even. Not high-strung and ramped up on adrenaline. It was the first time Homelander had witnessed him in such a state.

Why did he get to sleep so soundly while Homelander paced about trying to pass away minute after tedious minute?

It wasn’t fair and yet he didn’t want to wake his sleeping rival. He was vulnerable, for once, and Homelander couldn’t help but enjoy the sight. He could bust through the wall and snatch him away before he had time to flinch in retaliation.

Exposed. Unaware. Almost pretty when he wasn’t scowling or insufferably smug.

He landed on the roof, but as soon as he took a few steps forward Billy’s eyes snapped open and with a reaction time that was downright impressive for an unenhanced human he whipped a pistol out from under his pillow and aimed it at the source of the noise.

Homelander wasn’t sure what impressed him more, the fact that Billy could go from deep sleep to that in a second flat or the fact that he could sleep with a fucking gun beneath the pillow.

Billy stared up at the ceiling, gun aimed high, and then lowered it as his expression turned from vigilant rage to quiet exasperation. There weren’t many people who made a habit out of walking on the roof, and Noir was much lighter on his feet.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, but on a quiet night like this Homelander could still hear it.

There was no plan for tonight beyond looking around and hoping to find his quarry. It would have been smart in hindsight to have some idea of what to do if Billy spotted him, but he wasn’t ready to be interrogated. He let his x-ray vision face, taking one last look at Billy’s face as the roof became opaque in his sight once more.

It creaked as he pushed off - a low groan that shook the walls - and in an instant, he was gone into the night.

* * *

This wasn’t the first time he thought he saw Billy in a crowd. When he spotted a full beard and tousled dark hair he’d focus in, his keen vision able to discern facial features from far away. He always found himself looking at a stranger, one that probably had no idea he was one bad judgement call away from blowing them to smithereens.

He expected more of the same here: when he thought he saw Billy he tried to ignore it. Of course, he’s been primed to see him everywhere now after finally getting a look at him again.

Then the man he was trying not to look at shoved himself through the crowd like the worst sort of pushy fan. Billy was no Homelander devotee but if he wanted to be at the front of the crowd, he wasn’t going to let anyone stand in his way.

His eyes narrowed. _He wouldn’t. Not here._

But it was him. Homelander winced as he started to make his voice out over the low roar of the crowd, all _pardon me_ and _sorry ‘bout that_ as he shoved everyone aside.

_He won’t get too close. Not with the cameras around._

Homelander resolved to stop underestimating what Billy would or would not do in any given situation; tact and foresight didn’t seem to be priorities of his because soon he was at the front of the crowd, only a few feet separating him from the stage Homelander stood on.

“Homelander! I’m a huge fan. _Huge_ ,” he said.

A grimace crossed Homelander’s face for a split second before he remembered the camera and he smiled, the urge to bite his own tongue so he didn’t say something stupid crossing his mind.

“Thank you. Love to hear it,” he said, waving politely before he tried to step away.

“I’d love to shake your hand,” Billy said.

_Oh, fuck him, at least I had the tact to find him in private._

“I bet you would,” he said, “Meet and greet is next week. You should ask someone with a Vought badge about buying a pass.”

There. A nice, corporate-approved rejection. No free handshakes for overly demanding, non-paying fans.

“Aw, come on. Just once. I won’t keep you long.”

He pursed his lips, glaring down at Billy’s outstretched hand. A slow sigh escaped him. Would it make him go away, if he just gave in and shook his fucking hand? He was so persistent he was going to keep pushing it otherwise.

He crouched enough that he could shake Billy’s hand from up on stage. Simple, firm, the kind of handshake he’d give to any other man.

“Strong handshake,” Billy said, squeezing him tight like he was one of those test-your-strength games at the carnival, “Should’ve expected that, I s’pose.”

This was one of those times when Homelander could feel his cheeks start to ache as he held that big, fake smile.

He pressed one finger into Billy’s palm. If he wanted to, he could break every bone in his hand with a little more force. Billy just smiled back up at him, raising one eyebrow as if to say ‘ _I dare you to try it_ ’.

The bluff was called. He didn’t dare. As much as it pained him to be the first to pull away, he couldn’t stand there for hours playing handshake chicken with his worst enemy.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. You’re a busy man,” Billy said, that infuriating smug twinkle in his eye as he nodded all polite-like and set back into the crowd.

Homelander stared at him until he was out of sight, cool air stinging his dry, unblinking eyes until Billy was just a speck.

* * *

Homelander hovered a few meters over the roof, his cape rustling in the wind. Billy was awake this time, alone in the kitchen tossing a half-eaten microwave dinner into the garbage by the sink. The fridge was almost empty, save for some cheap beer. The _house_ was almost empty, so devoid of furniture it looked more like someone moved out and left a few things behind than that anyone actually lived there.

_Pathetic_. And yet, despite his own private chefs and massive suite fit for a king at the top of the tower, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were both equally miserable. Did that make him pathetic, too? Better, because at least he could keep up appearances? Or worse, because everything he had didn’t give him the slightest sliver of joy?

No. He wasn’t pathetic, he was the fucking Homelander. The only pathetic one was the insignificant little nobody that had nothing better to do than agitate a god.

The insignificant little nobody that currently commanded his full attention.

The roof creaked as he landed and Billy went dead still. He always tried to land softly but it wasn’t easy for someone who was all power and muscle mass. Stealth was not his forte, and it would be kind of ridiculous with his brightly-colored suit, anyway.

“You’re no Black Noir, you know that? The window’s open,” Billy said, turning away from the kitchen sink and staring up at the ceiling in a not quite accurate but remarkably close approximation of where Homelander was standing, “Get in or fuck off.”

Homelander said nothing in response; his furrowed brow was the only indication he’d heard Billy at all. He was expecting a fight of some sort where he would inevitably force his way in, because neither a locked door nor Billy holding it shut could keep him out. An open invitation had him tempted to flee like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, his opportunity to start this encounter at an advantage deprived of him. If he forced his way in, he won. If he was invited, they were on equal footing. But, he didn’t want Billy to think he’d scared him off, so he swallowed his pride.

He took a moment to listen for any footsteps or rustles in the grass that he hadn’t accounted for. When he was confident that he could proceed without being spotted, he flew in through the open window, slamming it hard enough to make dust fall from the ceiling before he pulled the curtains shut.

“Thought you might turn tail,” Billy said, sauntering into the living room.

He was wearing nothing but a shirt that was a little too big, the buttons all done up one hole too high, and what Homelander had thought were shorts but were in fact just boxers. Couldn’t he make any effort, at all? Wasn’t he worth that much? He scowled and turned away lest his lingering gaze be mistaken for curiosity.

Maybe he was a bit curious, but only for comparison sake, and he didn’t let himself indulge it.

“If I was _expecting_ company maybe I’d have gotten a little dressed up,” he said.

“And yet you left the window open, just in case,” Homelander said.

Billy laughed, taking a peek behind the curtain to make sure Homelander didn’t shatter the window when he slammed it. “Alright, you got me. I just didn’t want to waste my Sunday best on you. Not that you haven’t been wearing the same fucking outfit since the first time we met, I’d say I’ve gone above and beyond by that standard.”

“I didn’t think you’d just...let me in,” Homelander said.

“What would I put up a fight for? To give you the satisfaction of ripping my goddamned door off the hinges?” Billy said, “Before I sit down, do you want anything to drink?”

“I don’t drink and that’s all you’ve got.”

“Good. I wasn’t going to give you jack shit, but it’s rude not to ask,” Billy said, “Bet you’d be a lightweight anyway. All that ‘heroes don’t do drugs’ bullshit you’ve been pushing must’ve done a number on you by now.”

Homelander rolled his eyes as Billy snickered. He hated jokes, even when they were funny, unless they were his own. Billy’s attempts at humor were ten times worse than the most intolerable late-night talk show hosts.

“What a dump,” he said, nose crinkling as he caught a whiff of sweat and musty air and what he could only assume to be at least one neglected bag of trash tucked away beneath a rarely-used cupboard, “It’s hard work to make sure no one catches me here, you know. What business would I have in a place like _this_?”

He huffs, accusatory, like this is a problem he expects Billy to fix for him.

“I’m sorry, I’ll go ahead and move out to the suburbs so you can look less suspicious when you’re crawling around on my roof like a fucking alley cat waiting for some scraps,” Billy said, taking a seat in the one comfortable chair in the entire room before Homelander could claim it.

The only other option was a plastic folding chair in front of one of those TV dinner tables. He’d rather stand, thank you, it wasn’t like standing would tire him out.

Billy leaned back in the chair, left arm dangling over the side so he could grab a near-empty bottle of beer from the floor and take a sip. He stared forward at the blank television screen, paying more attention to that and to his bottle than to Homelander.

Homelander folded his arms behind his back as he scraped the heel of his boot against the hardwood floor. To him it sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Billy didn’t even flinch.

There was a gnawing in his chest, a deep hollowness aching with need to be acknowledged – not just by anyone, but by Billy specifically. In public it may have been a bother but here behind closed doors he longed for it. If he didn’t receive the attention he craved he’d be so damn empty that he might cave in on himself right here.

He hated that this was what he’d been reduced to. All the chances he had (all the opportunities he _passed up_ ) to tear Billy limb from limb before he had this unofficial blackmail immunity flashed before his eyes. God, he could have saved himself a lot of grief, and the worst part is he still doesn’t know if he’d do it. The mystery of what he gets out of Billy’s continued existence remained unsolved, but it was something then and it’s something now.

“You look like shit,” Billy said.

Homelander frowned, his jaw clenched. Of course, he’d find the one way to break the silence that would piss him off more than saying nothing at all.

“You aren’t even looking at me,” he said.

“On the telly,” Billy said, motioning towards the screen, “I was watching you earlier. You’re on every fucking day so it’s not like I have to try too hard. “

“I bet you always think I look like shit.”

“No, no, I always think you’re a piece of shit, but you usually look fine. Was that foundation on your face? Whatever it was, it didn’t hold up very well. Maybe you shouldn’t fly with it,” Billy said, holding the bottle up to his lips to hide his grin.

Homelander smiled, uneasy. If he let Billy know when he’d hit a sore spot, he’d never stop hitting it. “It’s part of being on TV. Not that _you’d_ know anything about looking presentable,” he said.

“You’re right. I don’t. I can only imagine how bad it must be that even _I_ noticed,” he said.

Homelander raised his fist in the air, ready to slam it down on the nearest piece of furniture when he was once again confronted with the sheer emptiness that was Billy’s house. There was nothing to throw or flip or punch through unless he fancied hitting a plastic table.

He stared at the table. He’s considering it.

“Oh, please don’t smash my table,” Billy said, flat and monotone, “It was fifteen whole dollars.”

There was absolutely nothing worth destroying in this entire place (save for Billy himself, that one thing he couldn’t break) and Homelander was going to have to resign himself to that fact.

“Fifteen dollars isn’t a lot, by the way, in case you were wondering. I know Vought buys everything for you,” he said.

“I _know_ what fifteen dollars is,” Homelander said, hissing through his teeth, “I think my pillowcases are worth more than everything you own.”

“Probably are. Stupid choice, though. How much return can you possibly get on thousand-dollar pillowcases? Don’t tell me you supes are weak to scratchy fabric.”

There was no response to that that didn’t involve Billy berating him for spending, possibly with a little quip about how rampant consumerism fits with the spirit of America anyway. Anyone who took one look at the state of his living room could tell that Billy wasn’t the sort of man who was impressed by excess, so flaunting his wealth was only going to invite further snark.

“That was a really stupid thing you did, showing up at my event like that,” Homelander said, deciding to change the subject rather than think of a pepper rebuttal.

“As far as I’ve heard, my name’s been cleared,” Billy said, dropping the now-empty beer bottle onto the ground with a thud.

It landed on its side and rolled in an arc towards the tip of Homelander’s boot. He rested the ball of his foot on top of it, rolling it back and forth and pressing down on it until he could hear it start to creak, a sound too subtle for Billy to hear. Finally he had something to break, and he doubted Billy had a proper broom to sweep up the shards of glass.

He’d draw it out, though. It was calming to have something nice and breakable beneath his boot.

“Not being a wanted man doesn’t mean you waltz your way into my life whenever and wherever you like, William. It means no one’s out _hunting_ for you,” he said, “People will still get suspicious if you’re out there shaking my hand. Your face was all over the news. Someone’ll recognize you eventually.”

“And yet you started it by trotting around on my roof,” Billy said, “And I bet you were peeping in on me, too. Bloody pervert just like your invisible friend.”

He didn’t know what was worse: the accusation that he was here for anything _perverted_ or the fact that Billy thought that he and Translucent were friends. He’d never be friends with someone whose favorite place was a public restroom.

“ _I_ can go wherever I want. After all the shit _you_ pulled, you’re still a _persona non grata_ ,” Homelander said.

“Ooh, they’ve taught you Latin,” Billy said, “That Vogelbaum cunt didn’t tell me that was part of your curriculum. Was it before or after Davy Crockett?”

Homelander leaned forward, the weight of his foot on the bottle causing it to burst with a resounding pop, like a firecracker going off. A few large pieces scattered about the room. He intended to wait a little longer, but by the time Billy had finished egging him on he barely remembered it was there, mere collateral damage as he stormed in front of the chair.

Billy looked away from him so smoothly that it didn’t even seem like he was deliberately avoiding eye contact again. He was simply too cool to acknowledge the angry superhero trying to get his attention.

That his heart rate hadn’t jumped a single time yet was salt in the wound. In the absence of real love or friendship or _anything_ really, Homelander had learned to rely on those unconscious indicators of emotion that only he could notice. Heartbeats spoke as loud as words and Billy’s said ‘fuck you’.

“I don’t know what he told you, but you’d do well to shut up about it,” he said.

That Vogelbaum had apparently spilled his guts to Billy was bad enough, but he was splattered all over the courtroom before he could even answer for it. _He_ had dibs on Vogelbaum’s life, and he would have gone through with it. Eventually.

“Or what?” Billy said, finally meeting Homelander’s gaze.

Billy didn’t like being told what to do or what to say. Neither did Homelander, but at least he understood that sometimes you have to follow orders even when you’d rather not.

He glared, his eyes red hot, two burning coals casting a pale red glow on Billy’s face. No one could look him in the eyes like this without being a little bit frightened.

No one except Billy fucking Butcher.

Billy stretched his arms above his head, calm and casual. “Put those away, mate, we both know you’re not going to use ‘em,” he said, “We’ve got a deal and you’re fucking neutered.”

Homelander unconsciously adjusted the crotch of his suit. _Neutered_. He just had to put it like that, didn’t he? It was bad enough that he was stuck jacking it all over the New York skyline to chase that high of the power he used to hold without Billy making an all too pointed comment about how far he’d fallen. He let his crimson gaze linger a bit longer before he blinked, eyes fading back to their usual blue.

“Only as long as I accept the terms of the deal,” he said, “If I wake up one day and say fuck it, you’re all finished.”

“Hasn’t that always been the case? It doesn’t matter what you decide to throw your tantrum over when you decide to throw it,” Billy said, “But at least now you can’t stomp around all you’d like in the meantime.”

Homelander hesitated, his breath hitching in his throat. Billy’d seen him cry (why the hell he let Billy be the one to see that rather than Maeve was still something he was trying to piece together), he’d seen him at his absolute lowest, and he hated his guts long before then. In a way, Billy was the one person he didn’t have to put on a show for: he couldn’t possibly think less of him than he already does.

“What else did he tell you? About me,” he said.

Billy hesitated. Not for long, but he hesitated. Homelander raised an eyebrow; he only knew Billy in a certain context so he couldn’t say how much of it transferred over to people he was actually happy to be around, but the Billy he knew wasn’t the type to hesitate. “Nothing much,” he said.

“Really?”

“Nothing that’d make me feel sorry for you, if you’re stupid enough to think that.”

Homelander turned away, still watching Billy out of the corner of his eye. If the rest of the world would pity him a little maybe he’d be in a better place but that was the last thing he wanted from Butcher. If he felt sorry for him he might ease up and that would ruin...what they had together, whatever that was.

“I don’t _want_ your sympathy,” Homelander said, “But it’s strange that you’d jump right into that assumption. He must have told you something, right?”

It wasn’t subtle, the way he craned his neck to the side to study Billy’s expression even though he had his back half-turned. Though he was trying to match his rival’s skill at the ‘pretending to ignore you’ game, he was nowhere near that level. Billy was calm and collected, Homelander shifted his weight from foot to foot, or ground his teeth, or pressed his tongue against his cheek if he had to wait more than a few seconds for a response. He could stand still for the camera and that was about it.

When an unfamiliar expression crossed Billy’s face he paused, piecing together what it could be.

It wasn’t sadness, but it must be something close to it. Like the look he had in his eyes when he saw Becca again for the first time in years, but without any sort of relief or joy attached. Nostalgia, not bittersweet this time. Just bitter.

“I know you think the whole world revolves around you, but you ain’t the only man who was raised by a piece of shit,” Billy said, “And a fair lot of ‘em turn out better than you.”

Ah. There it was. Billy’s heart rate rose, which would have thrilled him if he thought that he himself was causing it. Someone else, someone who wasn’t even here, was getting the rise out of Billy that he so desperately longed to cause.

Was he...jealous? Jealous of the fact that there was someone else he hated so much? Billy’s rage was his sole property as far as he was concerned; not the small outbursts he had all too often but the long-term anger, the kind that always boiled a little under the surface. That was for him and nobody else.

“Your father,” Homelander said.

It wasn’t difficult to pick up on the context cues and figure out who Billy was thinking of. Was this the first time he’s disclosed anything about his past of his own free will, even in a roundabout fashion? Yes, it must be. Everything else he found out on his own.

Delightful. Just dee-lightful. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the adrenaline in the air.

“What about the old prick?” Billy said, looking towards the kitchen.

Homelander chuckled. That fridge full of beer must be mighty tempting right now. He was happy enough to confirm his suspicions, even if it meant he wasn’t the sole cause of that chip on Billy’s shoulder. He should have suspected it all along. Plenty of people lose loved ones to supes, most of them just hang their heads low and go about their sad little lives. Even the ones that cause a scene and need a bit more hush money than the rest wouldn’t dare come after him. That’s some special level of hatred that strips self-preservation out of the equation entirely, the level that comes from a lifetime of foul treatment.

“What’d he do?” Homelander said.

“I don’t recall that being any of your fucking business.”

“Alright,” he said with a hum, “But he did do something.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to work out that things haven’t been all sunshine and rainbows for me, does it?” Billy said, “ _You_ worked it out, so it’s Kindergarten-level at best.”

“And, hold on. Tell me if I’m reading too much into this, but: you think you turned out better than me?”

Billy paused. There was that look again, sad and angry and bitter all at once. Homelander wished Billy would cry just so he’d have the pleasure of wiping the tears from his cheeks with his thumb. He’d savor it, maybe even lean in and taste them, wet and salty on his tongue. The best gift Billy could ever give him was his pain.

He’d never do it, of course. Billy seemed like the sort of guy who might not be able to cry even if he wanted to. Maybe he’s never cried at all.

“I didn’t say _I_ turned out better than you, I said a lot of folk with asshole fathers did,” Billy said, “When it comes to me and you I think it’s less that I turned out better than you and more that you turned out worse than me. Small difference, but you get what I mean.”

When the bar was this low there was no point in saying that one of them was doing better. He understood, even if he didn’t necessarily agree.

“I turned out to be America’s favorite superhero and you turned out to be not only a criminal but one of those people who can’t be bothered to get a bed frame,” he said, crossing his arms.

“If you’re going to start with that _America’s favorite superhero_ crap, you can fly your arse back to Vought and sign some overpriced postcards for the gift shop. We both know it’s bullshit,” Billy said, “The difference between you and I is no matter how bad I get I couldn’t ever be worse than you, not unless I alone had every nuke in the world at my disposal. Even then, at least someone could shoot me. You, on the other hand? You’re even a wee bit of a cunt and the world’s at a net loss, and you’re a bigger cunt than that.”

“Can you expand your vocabulary a little?” Homelander said, trying to zone out and avoid thinking too hard about anything Billy was saying.

“I could, but not for you. Cunt.”

_You should do it **especially** for me_, he wanted to say, but the words died on his tongue and he stood with a gaping mouth and unvocalized needs. The less attention Billy wanted to give him, the more he wanted in return.

How pathetic would Billy think he was if he knew how badly he wanted _attention_ and nothing more? If he wanted to hurt Billy right now it was only as a tool to captivate him. He could break one of his fingers, or squeeze his throat a little until he almost passed out and then let him go. No one could ignore that, not even him.

The only thing stopping him was the idle threat of his ruined reputation. Would Maeve even release the video over some bruises or a broken bone? Probably not, but probably wasn’t definitely.

His gloves squeaked as he pressed his fingers into his palm. It was the only sound in the room.

“Go ahead,” Billy said, though his smile was an ‘ _I know you can’t_ ’ smile, “I don’t mind a good punch to the face. Pain beats being in this sort of mood, don’t it? Even you know that.”

He knew. Unfortunately, of the few people on Earth who could give him a good beating, one was deep-fried and the rest didn’t like him enough to entertain his latent masochism. Sometimes he wished Billy could hurt him, just enough to get his blood pumping. Not enough to be a real challenge, lest he lose.

“Most people don’t like the sort of pain I cause,” he said, swallowing down the memory of loss and replacing it with denial.

“Most people don’t like getting their fucking skulls crushed, no. Plenty of people enjoy being smacked around every now and then,” Billy said, “By someone who can’t smack them fifty feet in the air, anyway.”

He paced forwards, and back. A few shards of glass crunched under his boots. Billy watched Homelander with the amusement he might show an angry toddler, with no signs of wanting to get up from his chair, even if he glanced longingly towards the refrigerator from time to time. Once Homelander was finished here he’d probably just…get drunk and go to bed, like it was a normal day. Lucky bastard. _He’d_ be fortunate if he managed to sleep an hour or two.

“Did he lock you in a fucking room? Did you have a window? Did you get to go _outside_?” Homelander said, so desperate to win this contest of agony Billy didn’t seem to want to play.

“I thought we were done with that,” Billy said, tilting his head back against the headrest, “No, he didn’t lock me up. There’s being a prick and then there’s whatever serial killer nonsense your old man was doing.”

“Vogelbaum is _not_ my father,” Homelander growled, lunging toward Billy, his teeth bared.

“Alright, then. The bastard that raised you and fed you and sheltered you and had a say over basically everything going on in your life. I wish there was a word for that. ‘Dad’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Oh well,” Billy said with a wave of his hand, “No, doctor not-your-father was a special kind of helicopter parent. Or, not-parent, whatever we’re going with.”

Homelander backed off a little, folding his arms in front of his chest. “Yes. He was.”

“Were you afraid of him?”

“What?”

“Did he ever scare you? Did you wish there was some secret corner of that lab where he couldn’t find you, or did you try to curl up in on yourself and disappear when you heard his footsteps?”

Was he ever afraid? He was afraid of what the outside world would hold. Once he was afraid of crowds, and people getting their hands all over him. He’d been afraid of the things _he_ could do to others, back when that was still a concern of his. But he was never afraid of Vogelbaum. What could he do to someone as strong as him?

“I could kill him,” Homelander said, “I’ve known that since I was old enough to walk. He wouldn’t even let me hug him.”

“That’s what I thought. Seems like we took two different paths to the same fucked-up destination, then, didn’t we?”

Billy pinched the bridge of his nose, like it pained him to admit even the slightest commonality with the man he hated most. Homelander, on the other hand, felt something rise in his chest, hot and angry but not unpleasant. Something in common. They had something in common.

He didn’t get to have anything in common with anyone. The world was divided plainly in two: him, and everyone else. Like a person crouching by an anthill, he was an outside observer, distant and alone.

And yet he and Billy had a shared understanding. It wasn’t the sort of connection he wanted, but it was better than the alternative, and maybe -

Maybe there was _more_.

“You think we’re alike?” he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile.

He should be offended at the notion, but alike didn’t have to mean Billy was his equal, did it?

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said we might have _one_ thing,” Billy said, his own expression falling when he noticed Homelander’s, “Christ, that’s enough for you, isn’t it? One fucking thing. Guess your baseline is nothing at all, ain’t it?”

“Two things.”

“What’s the second?” Billy said, “I’m gonna regret asking that, aren’t I?”

Homelander took Billy’s chin between his thumb and index finger, turning his head as he looked him over. That scowl. That angry glare. His heartbeat, rapid but without panic. Fragile, despite the act he put on. Breakable as any other man and yet he’d taken so much away from the strongest person in the world.

Just human, but taking up so much room in his mind.

“I hate you,” Homelander said, “I hate you more than anything. And you hate me more than anything, too.”

And that was about all that either of them had. Now that his sweetheart was definitely gone, what did Billy have other than his desire for bloody vengeance? And while Homelander may have once considered him a pest, at worst, he’d been elevated to proper nemesis. Revenge on revenge on revenge. 

“If you hated me as much as I hated you, you’d have done me in a long time ago, damn the video,” Billy said, trying without much success to wrestle his way out of Homelander’s grasp.

“No.”

His hand darted downward and he yanked Billy up by the throat. He could stand or he could choke, whatever worked. But he wasn’t going to sit back like this was a casual chat with a friend. Billy half-gagged once before standing his ground. Meeting Homelander eye-to-eye was better than being tossed around like a rag doll.

“And why the fuck not?” Billy said, voice raspy until Homelander eased his grip, “If you hate me so much, man up and get rid of me.”

“Because - ”

He felt the tears start to pool on his bottom eyelid. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to will them away, holding his eyes open so wide that they might dry out before they could fall. The sniffle he made as he tried to regain his composure was enough of a giveaway about his emotional state but he still didn’t want to cry in front of Billy.

Not again.

Any other time it would have been cathartic to release what he’d been trying and trying to build up to instead of being stuck in that emotionally blue-balled void where he was upset but not enough to cry it out. _Fuck, why did it have to be here? In front of him?_

Next time he blinked, he was screwed, but instead of getting it over with he stared back at Billy with shiny, wet eyes in a vain attempt to maintain a few more seconds of dignity before the world’s mightiest hero wept like a little pussy in front of someone who’d look down on him for it as much as he looked down on himself.

“Because if I didn’t hate you I wouldn’t feel anything,” he said, tongue pressed firmly against the roof of his mouth so he wouldn’t come out with a sob or a whimper against his will.

Billy blinked, and then smiled, wider than Homelander’s ever seen him smile. A half-crazed, animal grin that broke into laughter.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, “You really are weak, you know that?”

_I know, I know,_ came the intrusive thoughts before he could wave them off. He blinked, forgetting his efforts not to, and tears spilled down his cheeks, relief and humiliation all at once.

He grabbed Billy by the collar, looking at him through tear-blurred vision. Somewhere deep inside, the spoiled supe that had never been told _no_ in a way that mattered screamed _kill him, rip his head off, slice him in two_. But mature was never a word that could be used to describe Homelander, and it was easy to slip from one immature, underdeveloped emotion to another.

He yanked Billy close and kissed him on the lips, his lizard brain going _mine, mine, mine_ faster than he could think about what he was doing. He tasted like alcohol and cigarette smoke, two flavors that may as well be unique to Billy for someone like Homelander who never smoked or drank.

There were hands on his chest now, but instead of pushing him away they curled inwards, twisting the spandex of his uniform and pulling him closer. Butcher was too proud to back down in disgust, or perhaps just so fucking lonely that he took what he could get from the only person willing to give it to him.

Billy stepped on a shard of glass, a few drops of blood squeezing their way out from his callused heel. The scent was maddening, growing stronger with every thump of his heart, and he shoved his tongue into Billy’s mouth to better taste him, to be closer. To feel something. As the pain of loss became mundane and routine instead of all-consuming he realized - they both realized, he thought, though neither of them wanted to admit it - that all they had left was each other.

It didn’t hurt when Billy bit down on him. He wasn’t strong enough to make it hurt. All it did was hold him in place for a few seconds longer before he pulled away, both of them panting like tired animals, still connected by a thin string of saliva before Billy jerked his head away.

Shame hung in the air like a thick fog. Homelander was thankful Billy didn’t have a mirror around, he didn’t want to catch sight of his face which was probably beet-red by now. If Billy’s was the same, his beard hid most of it.

“Are you going to tattle on me, Butcher? Go ahead,” Homelander snarled, wiping one glove beneath his eyes to clear the tears away.

“No,” Billy said, for once at a loss for words.

It’s the sorriest victory he could have won: immunity from any sort of punishment because his rival didn’t want to disclose that they’d fucking kissed and neither of them hated it as much as they should have.

But it was better than walking away with nothing but a bruised ego.

“I think you oughta be going,” Billy said, heading for the kitchen to finally grab another beer, his cut heel leaving dabs of blood as he walked like a connect-the-dots puzzle, “Which is to say: _fuck off_.”

Homelander grunted, displeased at how forcibly Billy’s ordered him away, but he didn’t need to be told twice. The last thing he wanted was the awkwardness of sitting silently in a room with one fucking chair and a half-drunk Billy Butcher.

He left through the same window he’d come in like a teenager avoiding the watchful gaze of a disapproving parent, and by the time Billy’s finished pouring himself a drink, he was miles away.


End file.
